


Ghosts That We Knew

by Irrisia



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU post-Winter Soldier, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Supernatural Elements, comas don't work that way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 10:03:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5493209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrisia/pseuds/Irrisia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers the face, remembers ripping off a wing and watching the man fall, but he can't work out how Wilson always seems to find him. The Winter Soldier just wants to work out who he is, not feel guilty; too bad he never seems to be alone these days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts That We Knew

**Author's Note:**

> I actually started writing this post Winter Soldier, but couldn't figure out how to end it. Then trailer happened, and hey, it turned out to be kind of a perfect ending, despite the obviously AU nature of this story.
> 
> Yes, that is a Mumford and Sons quote for the title. It fit... way too well in places.

"Go away," he says, tiredly, catching sight of the man behind him in a shop window. Whoever he is (he never caught a name, just a face, a wing, a muffled cry as he fell from the sky), he's been following the soldier for the past two weeks now. Ever since he dragged a man he didn't know from a river, unable to leave him to drown. Just like every other time he's been caught, the other man shrugs, apparently unconcerned about being spotted again, and melts backwards into the crowd. The soldier keeps moving, walking with the crowd down the busy street. If he stays on the move, he can lose the other man eventually. He's a ghost, after all.

It's two days later he finally finds out the name of the man following him. He's in a bar, in a new city, when one or another of the news channels plays snippets of the whole thing. Shaky footage of the helicarriers going down, interviews with people on the streets, a soundbite from the man he was supposed to kill and didn't plays. "-I had a lot of help. Without Sam Wilson, I-" The soldier tunes out the rest, turning slightly. Sure enough, the other man is right there. "Wilson?" he asks, and Wilson nods, still silent. "Go away, Wilson," says the soldier, and turns his attention back to the television. When he leaves, twenty minutes later, he's alone again, but he knows it won't last long. It never does.

Three days after that, he's walking down a street late at night, in yet another city. Too open, too exposed, he knows he's made a mistake but he can't see anything. And then Wilson's there, in front of him, and he nods at the soldier and then looks behind him, at something. It's enough warning at least for him to dodge the bullet, enough of a direction to look that he finds his shooter. One of the last remnants of Hydra, trying to take him down before he gives too much away, the last spiteful gasp of an organisation that's already taken everything and his arm from him. That much he learns after some heavy-handed questioning, but he doesn't have time for more. Besides, he needs to keep moving. The blood on his hands wouldn't bother him at all, but he needs to be gone, and anyway Wilson's still there, watching, looking slightly concerned. "Thanks," mutters the soldier, as he walks away and past, and Wilson inclines his head, _don't mention it_ , and steps back and out of sight. He doesn't speak, but the soldier can almost hear him anyway.

Another week passes, and he gets used to seeing Wilson around. The other man never actually speaks, but the soldier finds himself talking to Wilson, a comment here and there about where he's going next, frustration at what he can't remember, anger at what he can. Wilson nods at some of the suggestions, listens to the rest of it. The soldier starts hearing him more, not a real voice, but something on the edge of his thoughts that offers simple statements and the occasional question. It's oddly calming, in a way, even if he can't decide if the voice is Wilson or just his own thoughts finally seeping through. He gets used to having the other man there, even if sometimes people look at him oddly for talking to someone who's just vanished again. Wilson's there when he goes through Brooklyn, and when he finally ends up back in Washington, in the museum, his face on a giant memorial. That person existed, he knows, but the soldier isn't sure he does any more. He still isn't used to thinking of himself as a person. He's an asset, a weapon, not a person, definitely not Bucky. Not the Bucky in the video, even if it's his face. James Buchanan Barnes is the real ghost, here, a dead man walking, only wisps of faded memory going through the motions.

"I don't know," he says to Wilson, on the way back to the cheap hotel he's found, rooms by the hour and not too many questions, and if it's dirty and appalling he's not much better off himself. "Do I try and be him again? Do I forget he existed?" Wilson shrugs, _you get to choose this time, man_ , and the soldier snorts. "I guess Barnes might not be the worst person to be. I'm still not him, though. Not Bucky. Not the way that man thinks I am." Wilson looks at him from the corner of his eyes, _I know_ , and then he's gone again, wherever he goes when he's not hanging around. Barnes spends the next couple of days waiting for him to turn up again, getting some rest, occasionally switching on the cheap TV in the corner of the room that only seems to pick up three channels. There's a retrospective on the disaster already, and Barnes watches bits of it, sees distant wavering footage of someone falling.

Next time he sees Wilson he asks, quietly, "you waiting for an apology or something?" Wilson shakes his head, _no, man_ , and looks frustrated, like he wants to say something more complex but can't. He reaches out, almost like he's going to touch the soldier's arm, but he stops an inch short. For a moment Barnes studies him, and then sighs. "I'm going crazy, aren't I? Or gone, more like. You're not... real, are you?" Wilson just shrugs, looking faintly uncertain, like he's not even sure if he exists or not. He lets his hand drop the extra inch, but he's on the side with the arm they stuck on him and even if Wilson was there Barnes wouldn't feel it. He could reach out himself, maybe... but he can't bring himself to. "Crazy, not crazy, I guess it doesn't matter that much. Better company than most, anyway." Wilson actually smiles at that, just a little, and Barnes can't quite escape the feeling of warmth for a moment.

He sees glimpses of Wilson once or twice the next few days, never for long, but Wilson always manages a smile for him. He's never close enough to talk, though, and Barnes finds he misses it, weirdly. And then one day Wilson is there next to him again, mouth moving almost desperately, trying to convey something, but Barnes can't tell what. He's oddly translucent, faint shadows of the people behind him visible through him, and Barnes guesses that answers the question. He reaches forwards towards Wilson, his real hand this time, and Wilson reaches back, grabbing for it. There's a cold feeling as his fingers pass through, and- a message, Barnes supposes, a quick burst of compassion and concern and farewell, and then he's stood alone on a crowded street reaching for someone who isn't there and people around him are looking at him like he's crazy.

It's a couple of months later he's finally caught in the basement, trapped in a vice he'd tried to use to fix his arm without it reacting and pulling away from his messing with it. The man he'd saved is there, but now Bucky can identify him, remembers bits and pieces of him. He remembers bits and pieces of himself, too, enough to feel comfortable with Bucky, enough to answer Steve when he speaks.

And then someone else steps around Steve, and Bucky- can't believe it. Still can't believe it when Wilson drops to his knees in front of him, reaches for him with a real, warm hand clasped around his still-flesh wrist.

"Hey, man. Still working out who you are?" Wilson doesn't entirely sound like Bucky thought he would, but the concern is still there, and a calm certainty that whatever Bucky still needs to work out, whatever he needs to decide, he'll get there. Bucky thinks he could live with that voice, the same way he can live with Wilson's smile still.

"Wilson?" He can't help the incredulous tone, even though Steve is giving both of them weird looks. Then again, he supposes Steve thinks they never met before, but- that will have to wait for now. Besides, as important as Stevie is to Bucky... Wilson's important to the soldier, and who he's become. "But you-"

"-were in a coma, that's all. Not the best of times, but I came out of it well enough." Wilson shrugs, hand still on Bucky's wrist, and for a moment Bucky sags forwards, relieved that at least one less tally is on the slate. It still leaves more than Bucky can remember, a number he'll be making up for for the rest of his life, but this one was important. And he'll still have to make this one up, somehow, but at least he can do it in person.

They don't have time to talk then, have to get Bucky out the vice and away. That comes later, in a hotel room, when Bucky doesn't have to let go of Wilson- Sam's hand. And later again, when they're up too late because Bucky still can't sleep and Sam's arm ends up around Bucky's shoulder as they watch a movie, apparently entirely unconcerned when his hand ends up on cold metal that shifts slightly under the touch. And again, the time Sam leans in still smiling to kiss him, slow and careful to let Bucky see it coming, stop it if he's uncomfortable.

And later, and later, and later.


End file.
